A worrier's perspective: How to cope with an unraveling economy.

It's decreased eleven percent in two weeks.

To what, you may ask, could I be referring?

The ozone layer over Bill O'Reilly's house since he began mouth-breathing on a full-time basis? Nope, that's twenty-six percent.

That problem I had that ended up lasting way more than four hours and forced me to live the past fortnight in sweat pants? Negative. And please, next time you see me, eye contact would be appreciated.

Michele Bachmann's chances of being elected President? No, because eleven percent of zero is still zero.

I'm talking about the American stock market, which has plunged nearly eleven percent in the past fourteen days.

It's been the lead story lately in every form of media, so yes, we could have avoided the news, but it would've been pretty difficult. Fears have surfaced of a "double dip recession," another round of economic upheaval, a further spike in the national unemployment rate.

It's scary, it's frustrating, it's maddening...and there's not a damn thing we can do about it.

I hate to say this, but these billions and trillions of speculative dollars ebb and flow outside our human condition and operate completely independently of most of us; we have no control.

We suffer the consequences of these market fluctuations, yet we're no different than a blue-and-red-chested Buffalo Bills fan who cheers his team from the nosebleed section—we're spectators, and no amount of lucky-pantyhose-wearing is going to change the outcome of the game.

One of my kids is a worrier. I won't say which, but boy, can she ever bake up a good cream of worry casserole. My constant mantra to her is "Look, only spend time mulling over things you can control or change. Everything else you worry about is just a waste of time."

I'm a huge believer in the axiom, at least intellectually, but it's time for me to take my own advice, because I'm fairly convinced that she's inherited my worry gene. For example here are a few things I can't control, yet still fret about:

Aging—It would probably help if I saw fewer movies with Eric Dane, Ryan Gosling and Matthew McConaughey, but come on, the only alternative is an eternal nap in a pine futon with a dirt comforter.

What people think—I say I don't care, but I do, I do, I do. And if you like what I've said here, please copy and paste it into your status.

Throwing up—Seriously, none of us can stop this train once it starts rolling. We might as well just get it over with so we can order Domino's before they close.

Traffic—This is probably the most difficult problem to overcome. The only way I would be able to achieve nirvana on a congested freeway would be to personally witness the driver of the Trans-Am who just cut me off lose total control of his bladder and bowels.

Losing total control of my bladder and bowels—Please see "aging."

I know the economy sucks, the unemployment rate is high and now, the stock market has tanked. So I'm going to do the one thing I can control, the single act I'm capable of to demonstrate my frustration.

I'm going to violently hurl this newspaper into the recycle pile.

I'm worried that I'm worrying about worrying

Worry, anguish, uneasiness, torment, fret, anxiety. Pick your poison, but no matter which term you choose, they all express feelings we share, some of us constantly.

I'm a worrier— always have been. My earliest distressing episode occurred at age four. Upon learning that I would be a ring bearer in my cousin's wedding, I grew quite concerned about wearing a bear costume. "What kind of ears am I going to have?" I wondered out loud. Everyone in the room laughed heartily, which layered an element of confusion on top of my apprehension. I was quickly told that no costume was necessary, but I still wasn't informed as to why I would be branded a bear at someone's wedding.

The list of worries accumulated as I grew into adolescence. What if I got drafted and sent to Vietnam? What if my mom and dad drop my sister and me off at my grandparents and leave us there forever and I'm doomed to a life of country music and Sears Toughskins? What if I forget how to swallow? What if my chubby, dimpled knuckles are forever inverted and never rise up to become regular knuckles?

Our worries evolve as we become adults and parents. That doesn't mean they're legitimate, just different. For example:

Oh, no. I wore brown shoes with a black watch. I'll be ostracized and exiled by my peers permanently.

I hope the Mercedes dealer remembered that I can't read Celsius, so my heated floor mats better have a Fahrenheit gauge.

My $350 authentic Roman Gabriel throwback football jersey was supposed to arrive yesterday. It's not here yet. This has to be the worst thing that's ever happened to me, so I'll stay home from work and call FedEx every 45 minutes.

I can now boast of some legitimate concerns, not those bred out of the irrational, obsessive compulsiveness of my childhood, but actual food for fret. For instance:

She said her friend's mom was bringing her home at 10:30. It's now 11:00, and she isn't answering her phone.

Her fever's been 102 degrees for three days now.

That cute mole on my neck that used to resemble a speck of milk chocolate now looks more like a double scoop of triple fudge chunk—with a beard.

The waitress says she recommends the pork chop—rare.

When I ask her new boyfriend where he got his "Proud to be Level Three" neck tattoo, he said his cellmate gave it to him in exchange for four-and-a-half packs of Camels and a thirty-second French kiss.

Those are just a few of them, because as a parent, you can really freak yourself out with "what ifs." I think that's why, while waiting up for my teenager to come home, I don't tune into the Teen Serial Killer Network. I think it's Channel 387.